Live Without Regret (A Touch of Fate) (9 page)

“Thank God.” Connor sighs, pressing a hand to the center of his chest. “I hated leaving you earlier, and I thought about you for hours before I finally fell asleep.”

His words knock the breath right out of me. My heart swells inside my chest, clogging my throat. Swallowing hard, I push past the rush of emotions. “You did?”

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “And then you show up and tell me that you’re not okay. You scared the hell out of me there for a second.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, trying to find the words for what I really want to say—for what brought me to his door in the middle of the night. Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I look down at my sock-covered feet.

Connor takes a step forward and his bare feet come into view. Placing a finger under my chin, he tilts my face upward and our eyes meet. “What’s going on?” he asks, concern filling his voice.

He lowers his hand, and I catch it on the way down, entwining our fingers. His thumb rubs along the palm of my hand, quickly putting me at ease. “Please tell me you feel this,” I say, my words rushing out. “Because I feel it. I can’t explain it, but it terrifies me.” I continue, leaving out
why
it terrifies me, because it feels good to get it out. “And I’d feel a whole heck of a lot better if I knew you felt it, too.”

Cupping my face in his hands, Connor pulls me in close. His sweet breath fans across my cheeks. “I feel it, too,” he whispers, his big blue eyes flitting between mine. “But why are you scared?”

“I’m not a long-term kind of girl,” I blurt. My eyes fill with tears, but I quickly blink them away. “I’m not even a right now kind of girl.”

Connor grins. “Then what kind of girl are you?”

“I have no freaking clue.”

Brushing his thumb along my bottom lip, Connor searches my face. “You’ve been hurt.” I’m not sure if he’s stating a fact or asking me a question, but I nod anyway. One of those pesky tears that had been threatening to break free finally does, and Connor catches it with his thumb. “Let me tell you what I think,” he says, holding my gaze. “You’ve been burned one too many times. Shutting yourself off was easier than trying again, and now you’re scared.”

My throat feels thick. The familiar burning in my nose signals an onslaught of tears. Despite my best attempt, I’m unable to hold them in any longer.

“Here’s the thing.” He swipes a finger under my eyes before continuing. “Whoever hurt you is a prick. He has absolutely no idea what he lost or gave up. But I
see
you,” he says, bringing my face even closer. “You’re incredibly strong, independent, funny, and tenacious. I adore all of those things about you. But you’ve also got this gentle side that I think most people don’t see, and
that’s
what I want to explore.”

Soft lips descend on mine before moving from one cheek to the other as he kisses away my tears. With each press of his lips against my skin, the shattered pieces of my heart are slowly put back together. I realize some of the edges may be jagged and it’ll take time to smooth them out, but I’m hopeful this man will be the one to do it.

“I can assure you that if you step out of the box you’ve holed yourself up in, you won’t regret it. This chemistry between us,” he says, waving a hand between our bodies, “is nothing I’ve ever felt before. I have no idea what it means or what all of this will amount to, but I want to find out.” Connor drops his forehead to mine. “I promise you that I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not worried that you’ll hurt me.” My voice is shaky. Taking a deep breath, I try to regain some sort of composure.

Connor furrows his brow. “Then what are you worried about?”

“That I’ll hurt
you
.” Lifting my hands, I wrap my fingers around each of Connor’s wrists.

“How about you let me worry about that.”

“But—”

“Nope.” Connor presses a finger to my lips. “You already told me you were giving this a chance, and I’m holding you to it. This
is
happening.”

I sigh and Connor drops his finger from my mouth. “Okay,” I breathe, giving him control.

Connor’s smile is blinding. “Okay.”

T
his girl.

She fucking kills me.

Grabbing Brittany’s hand, I lead her toward my bedroom. Thank God she follows behind without question, because there is no way in hell I’d be able to let her go tonight. Pulling back the covers of what has always been the empty side of my bed, I motion for her to climb in.

“Umm…with my clothes on?” she asks, looking a little unsure.

“Yes,” I say, chuckling. “With your clothes on.”

She slips between the covers like a good girl. I pull them up to her chest, then walk around the bed, and slide in next to her. Situating the pillow under my head, I lie on my back.

“Come here,” I say, holding out my arm. She doesn’t hesitate. Her lithe body cuddles up next to mine. Curling herself into the crook of my arm, she rests her head on my chest. I tangle my fingers with hers and bring her arm across my stomach.
Perfect.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Propping her chin on my chest, she examines me. “You brought me to bed so you could ask me what my favorite color is?”

“Oh no,” I counter. “I also want to know how you take your coffee in the morning, what your favorite food is, what types of books you prefer, your favorite childhood memory, where your other tattoo is… The list goes on and on, so we could be up all night if you don’t cooperate.”

Brittany’s eyes twinkle with what I can only describe as pure happiness. “Okay.” She nods, resting her head back down on my chest. “Purple. I don’t drink coffee. Pizza, but it has to be Chicago style. Romance. Cuddling with my mom at night. And,” she says, dragging the word out, “you’ll have to find it yourself.”

“Wow.” I laugh, amazed she remembered the order in which I said everything. “I’m impressed. And trust me”—bringing her hand to my lips, I pepper kisses across her knuckles—“I have every intention of finding that tattoo.”

She doesn’t look up, but I feel her smile against my skin. “What about you? Same questions,” she says.

“Hmmm.” Closing my eyes, I try to remember everything I asked her. “Red. Black with one scoop of sugar. Lasagna. Thrillers, but I’m open to this ‘romance’ that you speak of as long as we get to try out what we read.” A burst of laughter rips from Brittany’s chest. The exact reaction I was hoping for. “Listening to music with my best friend, Logan. Also, I have a ton of tattoos you’re more than welcome to explore any time you please.”

I open my eyes to find Brittany watching me. “Your favorite childhood memory is of listening to music with your best friend?”

Shit.

“It is.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I suspect will be her next question.

“What’s your favorite memory of your parents or your family? Speaking of family, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

And there it is.

“The majority of my childhood memories involving my parents aren’t good.”

Brittany’s eyes soften, but she isn’t looking at me with pity. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She looks across the room, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What is it?” I already know what she wants to ask; it’s the same thing everybody else wants to ask. People always want to know why my childhood was shitty. They want the nitty-gritty details. I’m not ashamed of my past—I’ve worked too damn hard to move away from it—but I also don’t necessarily like talking about it. To other people, that is. For some reason, I want Brittany to ask me. I want her to know.

“Is it too soon for me to ask what happened?”

“You can ask me anything you want.” The words don’t surprise me. With her, I seem to be an open book. “My parents were druggies. Mom ran out on us when I was six. I don’t really remember a whole lot about her, and the few memories I do recall aren’t pleasant.”

“Like what?” Brittany asks.

“Well, I remember seeing her falling over and stumbling around the house. At the time, I didn’t understand. I know now that she was most likely either drunk or high. And I remember my dad smacking her around a few times, but that’s about it.”

Brittany pulls her hand from mine. Resting it against my chest, she starts drawing slow circles with the tip of her finger. “What happened after she left?”

“My dad got worse. He was drunk or high nearly all the time. Eventually, he lost his job, which resulted in us losing our house. That’s actually how I got taken away from him. One of my teachers found out we were living in his car. And you know what?” Brittany raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say a word, and I’m grateful because it feels good to tell her this. Other than my foster siblings, I’ve never told anyone about my childhood. “He didn’t seem to care. I think he was just glad to get rid of me.”

“Wow,” she says, sighing heavily. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper, running a hand through her hair.

“What happened after that?”

“I was put into foster care. Moved from house to house until I ended up at the Smiths’ when I was sixteen. That’s where I met Logan. In fact, that’s also where I met Isabelle, Ryan, Jake, and Carter.”

“Your foster brothers and sisters?”

I nod. “Logan and I were closest in age, so our friendship was almost instantaneous. In fact, we’re still best friends, and we see each other nearly every day. Isabelle was younger so we weren’t as close, and I haven’t seen her in years. Ryan and Jake are biological brothers, and we’ve stayed in contact over the years. Carter…” A sharp pain rips through my chest and I take a moment to collect my thoughts before continuing. “He, um…he battled with depression most of his life. He committed suicide three years ago.”

Brittany’s eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh,” she says, her grip on my body tightening. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, not gonna lie, that was hard for Logan and me. Carter was like our big brother. Shit, he
was
our big brother. When we turned eighteen and got released from the system, it was Carter that was there to help us out.” My eyes drift across the room, landing on the picture of the two of us that sits on my dresser. “He helped us enroll in college, gave us a place to live, and when we started down a bad path, he was the one to bring us back. I owe him my life.”

“He sounds like a great guy. I’m glad you had someone like him.”

“Me, too,” I say, bringing my eyes back to Brittany. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be doing what I love.”

“Was he a tattoo artist?” she asks.

“He was. That’s how I ended up at InkSlingers.”

Brittany’s lips part, understanding flashing across her face. “I was wondering about that,” she says.

“About what?”

“Well, I remember seeing you on
Inked
. You won a decent chunk of money to start up your own parlor, but instead you work out of InkSlingers. But it was his, wasn’t it? It was Carter’s shop.”

“It was,” I say. “When Carter died, he left the shop to me—”

“Not to Logan?” she asks, interrupting me.

“Nope. Logan never had anything to do with the shop. I was Carter’s apprentice, and he taught me everything I know. Anyway, the first year after he left me the shop was tough. I was on the brink of foreclosure when Logan suggested I try out for
Inked,
and, well, the rest is history. I put a big chunk of money into the business, paying off debts, updating equipment, all that good stuff. And I’m glad I did. That parlor is my life, and I want to make it as successful as possible.”

“I love that.” Our eyes stay locked for several seconds. Out of nowhere, she leans forward, presses her warm lips to the center of my chest, and then wraps herself around me. “You amaze me, Connor Jackson. I feel like you’re too good to be true. Like one of those sexy men I read about in my romance novels.”

“Oooh,” I say, rubbing my hand along the top of her head. I thread my fingers into her blonde hair and let the strands slowly fall where they may. “I like where this is going. Does the sexy man end up with the girl?”

She giggles. The tinkling sound radiates through my body before settling in the center of my chest. “I guess you’ll have to start reading some books to find out.”

“Well played, Dr. Caldwell. Well played.”